


Shop at The Pink Lady

by compo67



Series: Punzel Verse [24]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sex Shop, Angst, Estrangement, F/M, Family Angst, Family Issues, HIV/AIDS, Het, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, POV Original Character, Self-Esteem Issues, Sex Toys, Timestamp, Trans Female Character, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:04:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6974668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santa Monica's feminist sex store hires a new part-time employee. Tristan likes the gig, his coworkers, and the frequent sight of dildos set on fire. There's just one person he never expected to see in the shop.</p>
<p>His brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shop at The Pink Lady

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nina41884](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nina41884/gifts).



> For Nina. <3

Tristan spends the good majority of his day pouring beer and whiskey for California dudebros at Freddy’s. It’s not a terrible gig. The tips are decent and the work isn’t too hard. Hauling crates of liquor can be hell, but Tristan reminds himself that Arnold didn’t get so buff by eating protein bars. 

Every Monday afternoon, Tristan leaves work for his second gig--a recent necessity since Miya got him to visit the doctor last month. Of course, that led to blood work and a bunch of other tests he sure as fuck didn’t want done, then the results were in: the bloody noses were from a combination of stress and the side effects of two meds in his cocktail. So his kidneys were sentenced to bear the burden of yet another pill. 

But it just couldn’t be that simple. 

Nope. Even with government subsidies and help from the manufacturer, plus his own insurance through Freddy’s, Tristan couldn’t afford the new pill whose sole purpose was to make him feel less crappy from the other pills he already pays a lot for. 

That’s how he needed this second gig. Twelve hours a week, fourteen dollars an hour, all under the table. 

Two hours ago, he was cracking open beers for the lunch crowd. Now, he’s sitting in the backroom of the Pink Lady, testing vibrators. 

“I remember my first vibe,” Liz sighs, walking past. “Almost destroyed the earth at the rate I was using batteries.”

“Rechargeables are an investment,” Tristan rumbles. “I think my hands are going numb.”

From the front of the shop, Liz shouts back, “That’s how you know you’re doing it right!” 

Liz and Kat are the Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon crew. From three to eight, they sell sex toys, lingerie, lube, accessories, and feminist porn to regulars, curious soon-to-be regulars, and awed tourists. On Fridays and Saturdays the Pink Lady hosts workshops; aside from his regular duties, Tristan preps the gift bags for those events. 

A group of twenty adults from the Santa Monica area have booked The Pink Lady for a Vibes 101 workshop tonight. At fifty dollars a spot, the evening includes a workshop given by Christine and Sarah, the owners, a Q&A, and pretty awesome gift bags. 

Kat pops into the backroom. She introduced herself to Tristan on his first day as the next and more successful Mariah Carey. While she hones her acting career through memorizing lines from soap operas, she works at The Pink Lady. Tristan and Liz have already sworn her to never making a movie like Glitter. Unless it pays enough for Kat to buy both of them fabulous homes in Laguna Beach. 

“Tristy, you know who is here to see you!” 

“She who cannot be named, huh?” 

“Don’t,” Kat quips, her cobalt blue hair sparkling even in the dimmer lighting of the backroom, “keep her waiting. You know what happens to men who make women wait.”

With a roll of his eyes, Tristan leaves behind his work. It’s four thirty, and Christine and Sarah won’t be in until six. The caterers are due to arrive in an hour, along with a mixologist. Tristan offered to bartend tonight, but this isn’t exactly a beer or whiskey kind of setting. He suggested that they should make a beer or whiskey setting--and invite the type of guys who pack Freddy’s on Friday nights. They’d all jump at the chance to drink and talk about how hung they are. Christine said she’d give it some thought.

Miya waits at the register, looking through the fishbowl full of buttons. Tristan’s appearance doesn’t interrupt her search. “I saw a REBEL GRRRL button here last week,” she grumbles. “I knew I should’ve bought it then.”

“But you’re the queen of my world.” Tristan leans on the counter, eyeing the lunch box in Miya’s unoccupied hand. “Aw, you brought me lunch.”

Snickering, Miya shoves the lunch box at Tristan. “Actually, Kev didn’t eat the one I packed for him, so I figured you might want it.” 

“You’re not supposed to feed employees,” Kat chimes in. “Especially not the gross boy employees.”

“I used to be one of the gross boy employees,” Liz sighs, replacing batteries in display models on the floor. “And then, one day, the magic vagina fairy swooped in and granted my wish.”

“Do you miss it?” Kat slides over another fishbowl of buttons for Miya to sift through. 

“Miss what?”

“Your penis.”

“Pft, no. There’s more room in my shorts now.”

“I would miss it,” Tristan offers. “I’d be touching myself right now if it weren’t for you meddling kids.”

An elbow lands in his ribs, jamming in just hard enough to cause him to yip. Miya holds up a Bikini Kill button. “I found it,” she almost whispers in glee. “Tris, I  _ found _ it!” 

He didn’t want to tell her about his discount, but she worked it out of him the second day he started here. Miya alone keeps The Pink Lady afloat. Well, her and people like Kat, who buy vibrators and dildos strong enough to break concrete. To avoid additional damage to his ribs, Tristan forks over the dollar required to buy the button. Kat cackles and hands Miya the receipt, mentioning to Tristan, “You’re welcome to touch yourself, dude, just as long as my knife gets to touch it too.” 

With the button already on her bag, Miya beams at the sight. She leans up and pulls Tristan down by the collar of his shirt to smack a quick peck on his cheek. 

“Right on the dimple,” she murmurs, then tugs at his ponytail. “Don’t let them chop off your peen. Not today, anyway.”

“What if we put it in a ziploc bag for you?” Liz nudges Miya’s shoulder. “By the way, you two are gross.”

Miya squishes Tristan’s cheeks and waves him off. “You mean,  _ he’s _ gross. I couldn’t possibly be gross. I’m a mom. The yucky boys I take care of are gross.” She turns to speak to Liz and Kat. “Pizza after close?”

Liz squeals and raises her hand. “Yes! Me! I’m in! I’ve been writing papers all week. I think I’m dead inside.”

“That’s why you seem so cheerful lately,” Kat quips with a slick smile. “What place you thinking of?”

“Nino’s.”

“Nino’s doesn’t have vegan pizza.”

“You’re vegan again?”

“Elimination diet number three. I’m supposed to test it out for a two months now.”

Shoving Tristan towards the backroom, Liz calls out over her shoulder. “I don’t care where the hell we go. As long as I don’t have to write a paper while we’re there! C’mon, boy, let’s get to work. I’ll help you with the goodie bags.”

“Just don’t hurt  _ his  _ goodie bags,” Miya responds. “I can’t have him in pain watching my kid tonight.”

“I won’t hurt Mr. Mom. At least… as long as he does what I say.”

When an individual in his immediate vicinity holds a sex toy the size of a grown man’s arm, a vibrator which takes three D batteries to operate, Tristan listens. 

 

Tristan started ART back in Anaheim--antiretroviral therapy.

From the first cocktail he knocked back, Tristan was told that ART would not cure him. It would help him live longer, and reduce his risk of transmitting HIV to any partners, but it wasn’t without its own risks. There’s a good possibility that the cocktail he’s on now will one day be ineffective. They’ll have to try new combinations in hopes of finding at least one that isn’t drug-resistant. Most people are lucky and don’t change their ART more than a few times in their lifetimes. 

Three months ago, Tristan changed his cocktail for the third time in five years. 

This combination has so far been the most expensive. He’s given some serious thought to robbing a bank or a casino, especially after watching all three Ocean’s movies. But, unfortunately, he just doesn’t have enough suits to pull off the con artist gig. 

Chucking travel-size bottles of lube into gift bags isn’t such a bad gig anyway. 

Liz sits across from him in the backroom, both of them on milk crates so it seems like they’re working harder than in chairs. Each bag gets one bottle of lube, a mini massager vibrator, a silk blindfold, a mega stretch cock ring, edible body paint, and warming massage oil. It’s a pretty good deal for fifty bucks a spot plus the workshop itself, although Tristan doesn’t really like the body paint or the cock ring. Body paint tends to taste like chalk after a while, even the upscale stuff. 

“I’m thinking about moving to Las Vegas and becoming a showgirl,” Liz announces, untangling two blindfolds. “I just worry I’m not tall enough.”

Counting vibrators, Tristan waves her off. “I’m tall enough.  _ I _ should go to Vegas and be a showgirl.”

“Twenty bucks says you don’t.”

“Fifty says I do and I’m known as one of the most talented showgirls in the history of ever.”

The street door opens. Liz leans back on her crate to peek at through the beads hanging in the doorway to the back. Kat can handle most things, but no one works at The Pink Lady and leaves their coworker to deal with bullshit alone. One of Liz’s favorite past times includes tossing disrespectful, punkass customers out of the store. No one does it with more panache, style, or poise. The few creepers who have wandered in have all been gleefully put through the shredder by Liz. 

“First of the lucky folks who get these amazing bags.” Yawning, Liz stretches back, glancing at the clock. “Bosses should be here soon. That means you probably have to start working and quit slacking off.” 

Tristan stands up and swats at Liz’s hair. He grumbles on about how he hasn’t been the one pretending to fill bags this entire time. In fact, he’s probably filled so many bags, Christine will pop in at any moment and declare him President of Stuffing Things into Other Things. He gathers up a handful of the bags from the floor and places them on the large shipping table in the center of the backroom. Christine and Sarah handle inventory and rotation of product. Kat, Liz, and Sahar handle stocking, cleaning, customer service, and writing blog posts, plus The Pink Lady’s newsletter. Tristan helps out here and there, but prefers to mill around in the backroom away from customers. Dealing with drunk dudebro beach bums forty hours a week tends to harsh the buzz on interacting with people. 

Liz complains about everything and anything as they prepare for the workshop. She makes the chalkboard signs for the sidewalk and storefront; he ties each tote bag closed with a pink ribbon Christine buys in bulk. Each package shipped out gets a ribbon, same with every purchase in the store that receives a bag. Using scissors, Tristan furls the hell out of each end of ribbon, creating the most killer bow any tote bag has ever had the privilege of wearing. 

On the last bag, the caterers arrive, mixologist in tow. 

Shit gets crazy in the backroom. 

There are dildos and pink ribbon and catering trays everywhere. 

Christine and Sarah march in at quarter to six and instantly instill order and sanity to everything. Manuel, their lead caterer, just lost one of his staff members right before the busiest season of the year. They’re down a body and he had to change one of the recipes for tonight at the last minute, and a few things aren’t yet prepped but he’s got all three of his staff members working on other necessities… 

“Before you burst a vein,” Christine cuts in, her voice calm and firm, “breathe, Manny. Breathe.” 

Two shakes of a pepper grinder from a nervous breakdown, Manuel clings to Christine’s shoulders. Her chin-length bubblegum pink hair clashes with his short, curly black hair. He’s dressed in a trim chef’s coat and she’s wearing a yellow skirt with a crisp, light pink top. After a few instructions and suggestions, Christine’s presence takes effect. Manuel rolls back into formation.

Sarah swings by, wearing her usual Pink Lady shirt and jeans. She hands Tristan his check. “Before I forget,” she says with a small sigh. “Thanks for all your hard work, you’ve been doing great.” 

“He was slacking off before,” Liz offers from the opposite end of the backroom. “Scratching his ass like it was part of the job description.” 

Pocketing his check, Tristan holds his hands up. “Guilty as charged. I couldn’t help myself. Do you mind if I start back up? It’s been a minute since I’ve scratched.”

“Gross!” 

“I might also just make my way down to my balls. It’s not fair my ass gets all the action.”

“As long as you can finish your shift,” Sarah laughs, “have at it. But don’t come running to me if you go one scratch too many.” 

After bumping shoulder to shoulder with Sarah, Tristan switches from placing the totes onto a trolley and to lending a hand to Manuel. Tiny sprigs of parsley need to be added to one hundred shrimp rolls. Manuel shows him how to do a few, and it seems simple enough. Five rolls in and his look nothing like Manuel’s. The man has magic fingers. Tristan snickers to himself and saves the reference for later. Tray after tray of shrimp rolls later and it’s past six. 

Still working, but not quite done, Tristan hollers out to Manuel. “Yo, I gotta take a break.”

“Can you finish first?” 

“No man, it’s six fifteen and I…”

“You are almost done! Please, just finish.”

Tristan sets down the bunch of parsley he’s been working from. “No. I  _ have _ to take my break.”

Grumbling, Manuel storms over. Tristan isn’t two steps away before he hears, “...unbelievable. Completely unprofessional. Don’t know  _ what _ Sarah was thinking.” 

Okay. There have been plenty of times in Tristan’s life where he should have walked away from shit. One of his brother’s most annoying phrases--said whenever Tristan was nursing a black eye--was to pick and choose battles. Unknowingly taking Jared’s side, Miya has also advocated a more peaceful method of dealing with crap. But the more Manuel keeps muttering under his breath, the more Tristan turns away from a pacifist attitude. He can’t exactly yell at his target, or, as much as he’d enjoy it, inflict some kind of quick physical harm on him. One, because he’s at work and ART doesn’t pay for itself. Two, because Miya got him this job. Three, because there are fifty some people in the shop expecting shrimp rolls and like hell is Tristan going to deny them that. Customers need to eat, be happy, and buy as many dildos and anal plugs as possible. 

But he can’t just walk away. It’s not possible. It would physically hurt him. 

In three quick strides, Tristan closes the distance between himself and Manuel. No physical contact is necessary. It’s enough to be a foot taller and lean in so that his words reach only their intended audience.

“I take my meds at six,” Tristan murmurs. Every word holds firm and clear. “Every day, no matter what, because it is medically necessary for me to do so. Do you know what Non-Nucleoside Reverse Transcriptase Inhibitors are, Manny?” One inch closer, Tristan drops his voice. “If I don’t take my Edurant, that funny little NNRTI, plus my Retrovir and Genvoya, it puts me at risk for serious medical complications. Would you like to be responsible for those serious medical complications?” 

The shrimp rolls take a backseat. 

Parsley fails to fall onto the remaining rolls. 

With a nod, Tristan steps back. “Great.” He claps Manuel on the back. “I didn’t think so. Excuse me.” 

That was way more satisfying than untangling a hoard of anal beads. 

 

Tristan takes his break outside, in the alley. 

He spreads out his lunch on an upturned crate. Miya packed a lunch better than any stupid shrimp rolls with a sprig of parsley. A note taped to the bento box proves that Miya didn’t make this lunch for Kevin. It’s even more obvious once he discovers what rests inside the box. As much as she enforces healthy eating on the kid, the portion sizes and selections aren’t kid-friendly. 

After setting out his spread, Tristan begins the next process: doling out pills. 

There’s one hundred and fifty milligrams of this, two hundred milligrams of that, a dash of twenty-five milligrams there. Working his way through the bento box, Tristan pops a pill every minute until the trio are gone. As with every meal, Tristan hopes that he’ll be able to keep it down. Throwing up brown rice, seaweed, onions, pork, and spicy sauce would be an adventure he prefers not to take. Though he wouldn’t mind so much if he threw up inside Manuel’s catering van. 

Sighing, Tristan sets down his chopsticks and fixes his hair. It’s getting long again. 

Miya might have time this week to give it a trim. 

His eyes close, easy as his mind drifts. 

It was last Saturday morning that she mentioned, in her soft, sleepy voice, “It’s kinda nice like this.”

She makes her bed every day except on Saturdays. August means the sheets are the color of sangria. Swapped out from the lilac of July, they still carry the scent of vanilla detergent and pomegranate conditioner. Her fingers coursed through his hair like chilled brandy. Crisp lemonade kisses poured in one by one, mixing with the hook of her leg over his hips sweet as a cup of orange juice. 

Earlier this summer, Tristan took her and Kevin to an apple orchard. Most of what they picked, they ate in slices. Tristan showed Kevin how to peel them with a Swiss army knife. There were pies, strudels, pancakes, and cakes. The last few of their bushel found themselves afloat in a large glass pitcher Tristan and Miya finished off in two nights on the balcony outside her bedroom. Perfecting that recipe didn’t take so long. Last Saturday, even though the pitcher was empty, he tasted it en route. 

On her wrists. In the palms of her hands. Sweet. Like the blackberries he added.

Over her collarbone. Up the line of her throat. Refreshing. Like the red wine she chose.

He sealed his mouth around a specific spot on her neck, biting her like the last of those crisp, sweet apples. Her breasts in his hands, he ran his thumbs over the hard peaks of her nipples, responding to the grind of her hips. Every rough kiss was a strong shot of summer sangria. Rolling the condom on sent a sultry, heady sensation straight to the small of his back. 

Pushing into her was as refreshing as taking a long, slow pull from the chilled pitcher.

They’ve been doing this more often than sharing a drink.

He hasn’t been thirsty for drinking liquor. Tasting sweat on her neck satisfies just enough. Silence draped over them in a familiar way. Face to face, her hips in his lap, kisses, bites, and soft, breathy gasps gradually created a rhythm. All the while, she had her hands in his hair, twisting and tugging to the same pace as his fingers stroked her clit. 

Leaning back, he adjusted the angle of her hips and his cock. The muscles in her thighs quivered the way slices of apples bobbed in a glass of sangria. 

The second she relaxed--inhaling deep, opening her legs, pulling him deeper into her intense, wet inner walls--Tristan changed the tempo. His hips lifted. He fucked her long, hard, and possessive. She took every inch of him, riding him beautifully, her delicate hands lost in his hair. She’d sweep strands of it back, then pull in a manner that reminded him of all the things he missed about Texas.

But always, always it was her fingers in his hair.

Tristan sits forward, his hair falling in curtains. Eyes closed, fingers aching, he sweeps a portion of it back. This is her last Saturday, or the night before that, or every afternoon this summer she wore cut off shorts and spaghetti strap tank tops. It’s the stars and hearts she draws on his hands and wrists in Sharpie. It’s her letting him watch her get ready for gigs in the morning. It’s her sending him off for a shift with a quick pull on his ponytail to bring him in for a kiss....

The door to the alleyway flies open. 

Hand still in his hair, his eyes snap open to the source of a most unwelcomed disturbance. He fully expects Manuel to be standing there, preferably with his coat sleeve on fire. 

“Hey! Stop scratching yourself for one fuckin’ second,” Liz snaps, reaching for him. “Come here, Kat says you have  _ got _ to see this.” 

If Christine has managed to set another cheap dildo sold by the competition on fire, there will be hell to pay. Yes, the sight of what might as well be an impromptu effigy has its merits, and it’s funny as fuck, but he’s only got  _ one _ break. There’s still an apple, a juice box, and a few Dove chocolates to finish. And in each Dove chocolate, Miya usually scratches out the compliments and writes in lyrics to songs he hates. 

Yanked forward, Tristan has no choice. He gives himself up to the demand of his coworker. This ain’t his first rodeo. When anyone at The Pink Lady says, “You have  _ got _ to see this,” it typically turns out to be a legitimate situation. 

Like that one time a customer juggled four butt plugs just for fun. They could have started their very own X-rated circus, especially since two out of four of those butt plugs were glow in the dark. 

Liz cuts through the chaos in the backroom better than a hot knife through butter. 

“Easy,” Tristan grumbles, his free hand patting his middle. “I just ate.”

“Dude, my dad is Black and my mom is Laotian. It happens.”

“I… I don’t even have a response for that.”

“Yeah, well, when you grow up with a penis and then voluntarily have it chopped off and turned into a vag, you get used to pushing through crowds. You should see me at Disneyland.”

“If I chop off my dick, do I get special powers?”

“Nope,” she quips with a shake of her head. “Special powers are for girls only.”

Stopped at the doorway to the front, Liz hangs back, unusually quiet. This is not how “you have  _ got _ to see this” goes. By now, Tristan should be in awe of the flaming dildo or butt plugs tossed into the air. Even weirder, Liz shoves Tristan to the side, less too not block the doorway, and more because she’s trying to keep them out of sight.

The only person who spots them is Kat. Her mouth pulls into a worried frown. What the fuck does that mean? Should he grab the fire extinguisher? Is Christine setting multiple dildos on fire tonight? 

Kat tilts her head to the left. Liz points in that direction and whispers, “ _ There _ . That guy.”

Scanning the workshop crowd--all kinds of people still networking, eating, and settling in--Tristan ignores the rumble in his stomach. He’s got a lecture for both of his coworkers if they’re trying to set him up again. He doesn’t care how gay he looks according to them, there will not be One Cock To Change His Mind. 

He can window shop and admire, though. Yeah, this dude is tall, dressed nice in a pewter cardigan, blue t-shirt, and faded jeans, and he’s put his hair up a lot like Tristan’s was before his break. 

But he immediately sees why his coworkers identified this as a “you’ve  _ got _ to see this” moment.

This person happens to look exactly like Tristan.

Or, exactly like Jared.

“Okay folks,” Christine calls out from the center of the workshop space. “Please take a seat in the circle and we’ll get started.”

Sarah doesn’t miss a beat. “We promise this’ll be longer than fifteen minutes.”

The crowd laughs. People sit down. Light chatting continues as Christine and Sarah set up the table. They’ve got the imposter dildo already out and ready to be sacrificed. Every toy in the tote bags is represented on the table, display items Christine keeps handy. As planned, the workshop begins. Christine and Sarah could recite their spiel asleep during the zombie apocalypse--underwater. 

Tristan can’t take his eyes off his brother.

Jared looks good. 

Heart stoppingly good. Radiant. Fucking amazing. He’s filled out some. There aren’t bags under his eyes anymore. And he’s sitting up in his chair instead of slouching in it to make himself smaller. Every time he turns to speak to the woman next to him--someone vaguely familiar--Tristan wants to snap at him to stop. Turn back around. Just so he can see. A little bit longer.

Forget what he said about Bailey looking like him. Bailey looks every bit like Jared. It’s like Jared, being such an annoying bookworm, found a way to clone himself and produce not one, not two, but three miniature versions of himself. 

What do the girls look like in person?

Hailey and Kaylee.  

There’s a difference between seeing someone in person and seeing them in the photographs Jensen shares every now and then. Or through the large street-view window at Freddy’s when they walk past without ever going in because Jared’s not really much of a drinker and the last place anyone would find him is at a bar. 

And there’s a big difference between that shithole apartment in Anaheim and arriving in Santa Monica for no other reason than to be near enough to not have constant panic attacks, yet far enough to not really hold himself accountable for his actions.

Or maybe there’s not such a big difference after all. 

He’s still hanging in the doorway.

“You gonna be okay?” Liz turns and telegraphs her motions. Light, gentle hands land on his shoulders. “We can cover for you.”

Miya got him the interview for this job. While his knowledge on sex toys was mediocre at best, he could repeat safe sex practices and information as easily as Christine and Sarah could spin their spiel. What he didn’t know he could learn. 

“I’m fine.” He decides to lie. It’s necessary. Adults don’t leave in the middle of their shifts just because their estranged twin brothers show up during a sex toy workshop. Maybe that happens on soap operas, but not here. Nope. No way. Besides, even if he could reason with himself to leave as a point of self care or whatever, the last half of his shift could pay for an entire dose of one of his most expensive meds. Money doesn’t get earned if he’s not here. 

With a squeeze to his shoulders, Liz sighs. “If you’re sure. I gotta head back out there.” She looks out at the crowd, then back at Tristan. “You don’t gotta say shit to anyone, but I mean, this doesn’t take a genius to put together.”

Huffing, Tristan runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, guess not.”

“Whatever, I’m just saying. Oh. And. You two are probably identical, but I don’t see it.”

She leaves him with that comment.

Great. Just great. What’s he supposed to do now? He doesn’t have work on the sales floor tonight, so he can hide in the backroom, but why? Why do that when he can stand here like a creeper? Why go back and finish his lunch so he can properly digest his meds when there. He. Is.  

And Liz isn’t exactly wrong. 

When they were toddlers, their mom took great pleasure in dressing them up in matching outfits. Tristan’s still pretty sure she mixed them up once and never got it right again. Not that it mattered in the end. She’s a thousand miles away and they… are here and not here. Jared looks softer than Tristan. He doesn’t have a scrap of facial hair and his jaw line isn’t as hard. It’s clear to Tristan that Jared’s tired, but this might only be because Tristan knows there are three kids waiting for him at home. It’s not that ragged tiredness from sleeping on a couch or not eating enough. 

What an idiot he was.

Selfish, useless, disappointment all over again.

The one person who wasn’t supposed to hurt Jared did--and not just once. Repeatedly. 

Jared was always different. He was too vivacious. Too bright. Too smart. Too… queer. Too flamboyant. Too proud. Too stubborn. Too much unlike everyone else. And it made Tristan nervous. Embarrassed. Distant. And his feelings never improved with age. Instead of becoming more understanding and accepting, he just… because… and then…. 

“What’d I tell you?” 

Miya walks into the backroom.

“You…” 

“Kat texted me,” she murmurs, arms crossed over her chest. “She hopes you forgive her.”

Tristan shrugs and then scrubs his face. “Where’s Kev?” 

“Gave him a bus schedule and sent him to Vegas.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so.”

“...so?”

“He’s at my mom’s.”

“You hate your mom.”

“Yeah, well, when I want a small Asian woman to yell at me, she’s my number one choice.” She bumps his shoulder with his. “This isn’t about me. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

On the sales floor, Christine announces, “We’re gonna open it up to some Q&A now. Aha, brave souls who have your hands up first, thank you. Let’s see… yes, in the green?” 

A woman asks a question about lube. 

Instinct tells Tristan she wants water based lube. 

“I’m a fuck up,” he blurts out to Miya. “Complete and utter. The whole shebang.” After a moment, he adds, “That’s it, really. You know. The usual.”

Staff members and Manuel himself pass by. For a second it appears as if Manuel might actually get a word in to Tristan, but Miya shuts him down solely based on the look she shoots him. Manuel’s mouth snaps shut and he scurries away, back to bossing around his staff and placing sprigs of parsley everywhere. 

Miya leaves Tristan for a second. She comes back with a footstool and plops it behind Tristan,  near his feet. “You’re too damn tall to talk to,” she mutters, holding onto his arms as she steps up. “Can’t believe I’m doing this here.”

“Right, because there’s so much boring stuff going on around us.”

“ _ No _ .” A search begins in her backpack much like the quest for the REBEL GRRRL pin earlier. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation again. But you know what?”

Dismayed, Tristan sighs. “What?” 

“Aha, found it!” 

“I don’t want a pin.”

“Calm down, I’m not giving you one of my pins. Sheesh. As if. Look straight.”

“I always look straight.”

Somehow, an elbow finds its way to his shoulder blades, jabbing lightly. “Shut up.”

“...”

“What do you see.”

“You just told me to…”

“Just tell me.” 

“What are you doing back there?”

Thwaping his shoulders, Miya snorts. “My god, Tristan! You’re worse than Kevin! But  _ he _ has an excuse. He’s a kid.” Her hands, which are slightly cold, position his head to look directly at Jared. “Without any sass, tell me what you see.”

Failure, Tristan wants to say. Not on Jared’s part, but his. None of the smiles on Jared’s face are because of or thanks to him. Well, maybe they are. If he hadn’t fucked up so bad, who knows what would have happened? Maybe Jared wouldn’t have met Jensen. Maybe he wouldn’t have signed up with that adoption agency. But there’s a long, long history of fucking up extending way past the one-bedroom apartment in Anaheim near the cemetery and across from that waffle place. 

Every single HIV counselor Tristan has ever met since his diagnosis has told him the same old line. He is more than his status.

“And what’s so great about that?” he hears himself ask, both hands on the doorway. 

Breathlessness settles on his chest, heavy and secure. 

A second later, familiar fingers card through his hair. 

She runs her hands through it in sections. “I mean now,” Miya says, quiet and warm. “Who do you see now, right there?” 

Just like anything, the scene before him can be reduced: a dude, really tall and kind of nerdy, here at the workshop with his friend. Maybe they just got here after work. Maybe it’s a late birthday present for Jared. Maybe Jared has been meaning to stop in for a while and this was her gentle push into finally going. Maybe they’re going out for drinks after. 

“My brother,” Tristan starts, his voice hushed and unsteady. “He looks good.”

Miya’s hands work in long, languid strokes through his hair. “What do you know about him now?”

“He’s a mom.”

“How many kids?”

“Three.”

“Is he happy?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“What else.”

“Uhm. He works at a cafe. He’s taking baking classes. Uhm… do we have to do this?”

A single kiss to the back of his neck causes him to shiver.

“You see all that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So go with it.” She twists his hair into a ponytail and tugs on it once. “Start there.”

“But I…”

“No.” Another tug to his hair. “Start there. And when you ask yourself why, just tell yourself, ‘Because Miya said so and she’s the boss.’” He turns to face her, intending to look at her eye to eye. She does him one better and pulls him in by the collar of his shirt for a brief peck to his dimples.

Most of the catering staff have shuffled outside for their smoke breaks. They better not be eating his Dove chocolates. Manuel paces just outside the backdoor to the alley, on his cell phone, fighting with someone in Spanish. The backroom almost looks orderly again, despite the number of visitors and activities that it has seen all day. 

“Yes, you’ve got a question? Yep, you in the gray. Hi there. What’s your question?” 

“Ah, well… okay, I’ve never done something like this before.”

“A first timer! Welcome!”

“Thank you. Uhm, so…” It doesn’t matter how many years they’ve been here. That drawl never really goes away. “My uh, partner, likes to top. A lot.” 

Sarah fields this question, taking over for Christine. “Is this something you’d like to see change in your relationship?”

“Well, kind of? I mean. Okay. I have no complaints. He’s… awesome. I guess I would just like to top every now and then. I’m just, uhm, not sure how to ask?”

“First, I want to thank you for asking that question here, with us. This is something we hear a lot, about everything, really. You’d like to top, your partner has never exactly offered to bottom. You’d like to try out this toy, your partner hasn’t shown interest in toys before. You’d like to try this, they’re not exactly holding up a giant sign that says, ‘Let’s do it!’ But, before I keep going, let me ask you, have you talked about this one-on-one before?”

“Sort of. He’s not… exactly opposed to it, he just says it’s not his thing.”

“Is your partner cis?”

“What?”

“Cis-gender. As in, he identifies with the gender he was assigned at birth.”

“Oh. Uhm, sure. Yes.”

“So penetrative anal sex doesn’t appeal to him?”

“Not really.”

“Have you both tried?”

“A few times. I get really nervous about it. I wanna do it, I just don’t wanna make it worse for him. And like, I don’t want him to think I’m unhappy. I’m not. At all. Well, okay, I think we could have sex more often, but uhm, I just really like having sex with him.”

“I think, in your case, from what it sounds like to me--and Christine might add on--it might be helpful to really talk about this in a nonsexual setting. Let him know what you want, be honest and straightforward. Clarify. Maybe start with a toy, like this one. The Arrow is perfect for beginners--great to receive and easy to use. Maybe offer him your perspective on bottoming. Why you enjoy it, how it feels.”

“I can do that. I think.”

“Best of luck to you. We can chat more afterwards. Chris, anything to add?”

“You got it all. It’s never too late to become a backdoor beginner. Thank you for the question.” 

Tristan was about to wax and wane on how much his brother reminds him of Texas, but instead, he’s found himself processing way more about Jensen’s sex life than he ever thought he’d know. 

“This is really not what I expected to hear tonight,” Miya chimes in, resting against his back. “Is this a good time to bring up my fantasy of pegging you one day?”

Tilting his head back, Tristan manages a tiny smile. “I’m not saying no.”

After a tug to his ponytail, she hops off the crate, looking like the cat that just ate the mouse. “Hmm. Interesting. Very interesting. What have we learned?” 

The Q&A continues on. Neither Sarah nor Christine were flustered taking Jared’s question. He owes them, Kim, and Liz numerous thank yous. Because for all that he’s stared at Jared tonight, he feels it in his bones that this is not the time or place to try and talk. There’s more to it than his hesitation from his self-esteem and all that clinging to the past bullshit Miya is usually right about. 

If he doesn’t go about this in the right way, he could seriously fuck over Jensen.

There’s a joke there somewhere, but Tristan doesn’t have the energy to find it. 

“C’mon.” Miya holds her hand out. “I see that the wheels are turning upstairs. Knowing you, that’s a good sign.”

At a calmer pace than he was lead to the sales floor, Miya leads him back to his dinner outside. He pulls up another crate for her. No demand for conversation pushes forth. No requirement for an explanation. Not even a single question about his decision to let his opportunity go this evening. None of that. Just the predictable motion of her reaching for his juice box and unwrapping the straw for him. 

This is no sangria.

But she takes a sip and hands it back.

She’ll cancel pizza with Liz and Kat. They’ll pick up Kevin, who will likely be all too eager to go home. After she puts him to bed, she can pull him into her bathroom, into her clawfoot tub, and sit with him--her chest to his back, legs wrapped around him. 

Aegean waves of nighttime slosh over the alleyway. 

Taking a deep breath in, Tristan looks down at his clasped hands. 

“The sons of Adam are limbs of each other,” he exhales. “Having been created of one essence.” The workshop wraps up. People mingle. “When the calamity of time affects one limb, the other limbs cannot remain at rest. If you have no sympathy for the troubles of others, you are unworthy to be called by the name Human.” 

Opportunities lie in wait.

**Author's Note:**

> YAY!!! I finished this!!! :D :D :D
> 
> I just wanted to flesh out Tristan a bit more, plus I love his POV. So fun to write. I hope y'all enjoy! I'm so so glad to have something to put up. Makes me feel good. Leave me comments, I'll feel better!! lol


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